


Between You and Me

by DMichelleWrites



Series: Ficlets [33]
Category: Arrow (TV 2012)
Genre: F/M, Ficlet, Fluff and Smut, Olicity Hiatus Fic-A-Thon, Olicity Hiatus Fic-A-Thon 2018
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2018-07-26
Updated: 2018-07-26
Packaged: 2019-06-16 20:52:44
Rating: Mature
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 1
Words: 2,096
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/15445626
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/DMichelleWrites/pseuds/DMichelleWrites
Summary: After a mission in Markovia with Anatoly, Oliver and Felicity get well reacquainted in Gotham.





	Between You and Me

**Author's Note:**

> **Prompt 8:** Unfinished.

( _Originally via 701 "Inmate 4587_ ")

Oliver’s heavy footsteps pound against the dirty concrete floor. Though he’s hardly out of breath. He knocks out foes with a single punch, kick, spin and final jab of his elbow. Somehow it was fitting he’s wearing his old blue prison uniform. The barred doors slide open, revealing his last obstacle. El Tigre, a former professional wrestler straight out of Corto Maletese, paid as hired muscle to help the Bratva overthrow the new Markovian government.

“Anatoly, now!” Oliver orders, adopting a swift fighting stance.

El Tigre’s size rivals that of Dwayne “The Rock” Johnson. He grunts, rising from the cot with the anger of a caged bull. There is a reason he was locked in the bowels of this abandoned prison, he’s Bane’s protege. And with those drugs in his system, there is no telling how Oliver can leave this final fight unscathed.

“Kapiushon, are you certain?” His comrade wonders with a sharp raise of his graying eyebrow.

Oliver grunted, even as El Tigre picked him by the shoulders as if he’s a rag doll, “Do it!”

Anatoly opens the control panel to the entire prison system, which was previously used for guests and tourists. A new keypad is rimmed with blue light under the shiny metal.

“Damn it,Oliver.” His Russian accent lilts through the English in an angered grit. “This contraption your wife designed appears to require some sort of code.”

Oliver lead with a bare fisted punch, voice lowered to Green Arrow levels, “I’m a little busy right now, my friend.”

Okay, that is not helping. There can be a million possibilities. He shook his hand in pain, and that punch will definitely leave some bruised knuckles. El Tigre’s yellow teeth peek through his tiger print luchador mask with a confident laugh.

His adversary smirks, “That all you got, hijo.”

A surprisingly fast low kick for such a large man has Oliver flat on his back in seconds.

“Oliver.”

“I’m okay.” Oliver groans, getting right back on his feet, “Punch in 458791.”

The system beeps, signaling an incorrect passcode.

“It is not working. Yield, my friend!”

“No!” Oliver chokes out when El Tigre puts him in a headlock.

At the very least, he has speed an agility on his side. He elbows his foe in the gut, loosening his grip. He pulls something that is signature of Roy Harper, a backflip, landing mere centimeters away from cell bars.

Anatoly acknowledges, “Quite impressive, bunny boy. But I must have that goddamn code.”

A thought pops into his head, the off-duty Emerald Archer suggests, “Try 718211.”

The security grid flashes green, and all the power is cut off the in the old prison. For most, fighting in the pitch black dark will be a death sentence. Yet for Oliver, it is as common as the air he breathes. Darkness became his ally — years of being a vigilante, training in the League of Assassins, and surviving bitter cold nights on Lian Yu hone his other senses. That proves to be quite the problem for El Tigre, who has injected himself with a cocktail of multiple steroids and splicers, he’s left in a ring without a referee now.

“Remember what I taught you, Kapiushon.” He mutters to himself in a silent prayer.

Anatoly hears every move blow for blow — cracks against the concrete, the air moving around them, and one last clatter against cell bars.

Concern spikes in his tone, “Oliver?!”

“He’s down.” His partner in crime fighting assures, “Turn the lights back on.”

The elder man does so. ARGUS has swept in like the National Guard, taking the last of the Bratva into custody. Lyla’s agents go as quick as they come without trace in set. Strangely, Anatoly finds Oliver lying on a ripped cot, lovingly staring at a picture of Felicity and William if only for a moment.

The former gangster ribs, “Needed to take a rest, old timer?”

“You’re one to talk, Knyazev,” The man snorts, getting up from his resting spot. He reminds his teacher and friend, “Sometimes it’s important to remember what you’re fighting for.”

He frowns, yet pride shines in his eyes, “I suppose so.” Extending his hand, Anatoly shakes his head, “You Americans are rather strange.”

Dimples pool in his cheeks, “Until next time, Vice President Knyazev.”

For some reason, it’s difficult for Oliver to believe Anatoly has stopped living in the gray area of morality, but then again, with the lives that they lead, don’t they all? The fair weathered friends part ways at the airport. Oliver actually manages to catch some sleep on the thirteen hour flight back to Gotham. Cushy plush leather seats, a classic by Simone de Beauvoir, and a comfy grey blanket help with a well deserved rest.

The elevator dings, and gold painted doors slide open. Despite the shiner and probable bruised ribs, Oliver walks through a corridor of the finest hotel in Gotham like he’s stepped off a magazine cover. Before he can slip in his keycard, Felicity greets him with a sweet feline smile, pink tipped streaks popping with color against her blonde locks, and those beautiful blue eyes. Her ample curves contrast the doorway, and all of a sudden he’s very eager to find out what she has underneath that sleek leather jacket.

“Hey, st… _Mmph_.”

Oliver’s cut off by his wife’s lips before she’s pulling him inside their presidential suite. Her hands sneak under his black cargo jacket. It falls to the floor just as she shoves him against a support beam.

Breaking the kiss in need of oxygen, Felicity breathed, “What took you so long?” She punctuates every next breath with a small peck, “Your flight was supposed to arrive two hours ago.”

She doesn’t notice his wince when her nimble fingertips brush right along his sides. He tucks those playful stray pink locks behind her ear. Oliver stares at Felicity like he knows whatever power he believes in is this amazing right in front of him. His happiness radiates from ear to ear, yet his bruises are tender. That doesn’t stop him.

“I had to transfer to a connecting flight over here. I would’ve called, but my battery died,” explains her husband.

The blonde hacker playfully swats his chest, “I told you to always bring an extra ch…”

Now it’s Felicity’s turn to be cut off by a searing kiss. Thankfully, her jacket and his hand cushion her head and back from the wooden pillar.

“Sorry, let me make it up to you.”

The tech mogul shrugs off her jacket, exposing a new green silk camisole with sheer black lace in all the right places. He’s almost about to go back to kissing her when she unzips and kicks off blue jeans after a couple strong pulls.

His mouth runs dry, and his gaze darts down to those mismatched floral boyshorts.

“Oops,” She teases, hands purposefully resting on her thigh and the other on décolletage, “Well, it was getting a little hot in here.”

He agreed, nodding his head, “So hot.”

Felicity is two scraps of fabric close to naked, but her husband is fully dressed.

“Your turn,” says Felicity, gesturing for her husband take off his shirt.

But that’s not what he does. Oh no, he has other plans in mind. His breath fogs up her glasses as he goes in for another passionate kiss they’ve literally been waiting a week for this. His stubble grazes her chin, although Felicity doesn’t mind in the slightest. Her pale pink nails scrape against it with a giggle that left her lips. From there, it’s a hungry makeout session with playful nips, hands in the hair, and his go to move sucking on her bottom lip. His palm is shoved right at her center when his lips trail down her neck.

“Kids?” He asks in a murmur against her skin.

“Ah!” She tells him with shaky breaths as he massages her clitoris through the shorts while his teeth graze her pulse point, “They’re-they’re at Batman: The Musical with Raisa. Oh-Oliver.”

His name falls from her lips in more of an annoyed growl than a lustful moan.

He stops purposefully, pulling away, “Sorry, Honey. Did you have something to add?”

“Smart ass.” She quips, lifting up his shirt, “We have some unfinished business here, mister. Woah, but first we need to get you some ice for your everywhere.”

“It’s fine, Felicity.”

“Oliver, why did you tell me about this?”

“Again, I was going to, but you started kissing me, and now we’re here.”

Okay, for once, Oliver has a fair point, but still those look like they hurt.

Felicity chews on her lower lip, adjust her askew glasses, “Are you sure we should still…?”

“Honey, when have I ever turned down sex with you?”

She scoffs, “Fine, but you’re in no mood to throw me over your shoulder, caveman.”

“Oh yeah.” Her husband replies with a cheeky tone, “Is that a challenge, Mrs. Smoak-Queen?”

“No, no, no.” Her protests are met with a yelp as soon as she’s nestled by the crook of his neck, “Easy, easy, easy now.”

He promises while he sneaks in a booty grab, “I’m being careful.”

Ooh, boy is he going to feel certain muscles in the morning, though in the best and worst kinds of ways. So much for sexy times against all way. He places her gently in the center of their Queen sized bed. Oliver carefully puts her glasses on the nightstand. Felicity squeezes his shoulder with a lopsided smirk. They strip down to not a stitch on them, the two petite chocolate cakes sadly left uneaten with champagne still fizzing in the crystal flutes. She giggles randomly. He checks his torso for an oddly shaped bruise or something.

“Oh, I wasn’t laughing at you. A Queen sized bed for Oliver Queen, between you and me, that’s pretty funny.”

“Hilarious.”

He climbs on the bed, cocooned between her legs She likes to be on top, but that would too much pressure for his tender muscles.

Felicity directs with a finger wag, “Sit up.”

Oliver does as instructed. Felicity straddles his lap. Her hand works over his erection, stroking and pumping at the perfect pace. His palm rubs against her center before he slips two digits inside. They move together in synchronicity until they’re both left to be a trembling mess in each other’s arms. There’s a healthy wet spot between them on the sheets, yet they can care less. The night is just getting started.

“I love you.” He whispers into hair, slightly curly and damp from sweat.

Hand carding through his salt, pepper, and still blonde locks, she promises, “I love you too.”

No words are needed when she hooks her legs around his back, feeling the burn scar against her heels. Felicity instinctively puts her hand on his sides for leverage.

“Ow!” Oliver huffs. Before she can utter an unnecessary apology, “It’s okay. Just hold tight to my shoulders.

They’re seated mere inches away from the pillows. She lowers herself onto him, and it’s perfect. The couple stares right into each other’s eyes almost as if it’s their last night together. They had that very night before Oliver was shipped off to Supermax without so much as a trial, but this is perfect. His calloused palms match the coarse scars on her back as he whispers sweet nothings.. Her teeth dig into his neck when Oliver thrusts up sharply, hitting that spot deep inside her.

“ _Yes_!” Felicity cries out in pleasure, probably disturbing the neighboring room. All they care about in this moment is each other.

They develop a slow gentle rhythm, mindful of Oliver’s injuries. The mattress springs creak under them. She squeezes his shoulder tighter than before, whimpering in the crook of his neck. Their paces grows into a staccato beat, and pleasure tingles at the base of his spine.

He groans, “Oh, _Felicity._ ”

She joins him a second later with shudders wracking both their bodies. Felicity falls on top of her husband, attempting to roll off him.

“Sor…”

“Hey, never apologize.” Her husband reminds, pulling her flush against him, “Come here. I like it.”

“Alright, but as soon as we shower, we’re getting you a lot of ice packs.”

“Okay.” Oliver concedes, pressing a kiss to the crown of her head before they drift off into a capnap.

Oliver surprises the boys and Raisa with his arrival by morning, and following some freshly made French toast in their en suite kitchen, they kick off one of the best Queen family weekends ever had.

**Author's Note:**

> Reviews and Kudos are appreciated.  
> Say hey, and please let me know what you think in the comments.  
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